


Hellhound

by TheRedK



Category: Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheRedK/pseuds/TheRedK
Summary: Beka takes a case that is close to home and heart.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 13





	1. The Pigeon

Chapter 1: The Pigeon

Beka hummed softly to herself as she braided the spike into her hair. Last night had been a good night. The market had been noisy and chaotic as always, filled with soldiers coming back from the war and mothers trading handiworks to feed their children. Granther Fana had gotten angry at a mot who tripped over her cane, and screamed at her. Beka chuckled at the memory of the curse. She hadn’t heard the one about a duck before. Granther Fana was mean, but she was wicked clever with a curse. 

Beka had stopped a cutpurse after a squire’s silvers, and broken up a drink-fueled fight among the stalls. Filcher had tracked a stolen basket of bacon, and the butcher had given her some in thanks. Bacon stuffed in a roll would make a tasty dinner for the whole family. Young Tam still ate like the boy he was, but Matheus ate the weight of the horses he curried for his uncle, and even Jessa liked a bit of bacon. Farmer would enjoy it too. 

Beka stepped over Filcher, asleep in the sunshine. She would have named him Snoozer as a puppy instead of Filcher if she had realized how much he’d like a warm nap. She tossed cold water on her face, and if a few drops accidently hit the sleeping hound, well, he needed to get up himself. Filcher’s nose was almost as good as his great- great-grandmother, Achoo. He’d be begging for a bite of that bacon himself come dinner time. One whiff and he’d be bouncing around the kitchen for it. The only thing he liked better than napping or tracking was a piece of bacon snatched from the floor. 

Neatly dressed in her black tunic and arm guards, Beka stepped out of the bedroom towards the common room. One blue sock lay in the middle of the floor. She picked it up, and leaned against the doorway. Tam lay on his stomach. He had one of Farmer’s books propped up before him. His feet were cocked in the air, and yes, one foot was bare. She threw the sock at him, hitting him neatly in the top of his head. 

“Put your shoes on, lad, if you want to help me feed the pigeons.”

Tam looked up. He had the same dreamy eyes as his father, and the same long, thin body. He had Beka’s dark blonde hair and stubborn chin, and the piping thin voice of a boy of 8. “Good morning, ma. Did you know that some people think the Barzhun can make the sand burn?”

Beka looked affectionately at her son. “Do they, now? And is that what your da’s book says?’

Tam shook his head as he rolled over and reached to put his sock on. “No, the book says it’s just the sun reflecting off the sand. But why would everyone stop to look at it if it’s not on fire? I don’t understand why they like the sun at dusk so much.”

Beka unwrapped the old loaf she had bought before coming home after her shift, and began breaking it into bits for the birds. “People’s ways are strange to outsiders. Remember those stories I told you about Gareth and his teachers? Twaz strange to have a teacher to himself rather than the day school like you do. You just have to figure each one out for their own self.”

Tam tied the last string of his shoe, and reached for the bucket of bread crumbs. “Aye, ma. I know. But still. Burning sand! That would be something to see!”

“When you’re growd, lad. Then you can go off and see all the burning sand you like. Just bring your stories home to your da and I. Farmer would like stories of burning sand too.”

Filcher wandered from the room behind her, snuffling at her hand for a quick ear scratch. He followed behind as they climbed to the roof. In the years she and Farmer and their family had lived in the house on the lane, they had turned the roof into a small garden. She even had a few miniature roses in one corner, though most of it was vegetables for the pot. It was green and warm in the afternoon sun. The day was hot now, but the night market would be cool for her shift. The heat made people argue, and then the cool brought out the noise. The moon would be nearly dark, too – lucky to have Filcher to sniff out the shadows so she could watch the light.

Beka and Tam passed the potato barrels and the squash, heading to the front part of the roof. It was bare save for a wood bench. It was good to sit and watch the garden, or to rest with the birds. She stood by the bench and looked to the sky. 

Two pigeons flew down, perching on the edge by the cucumbers. Three more landed beside them. Then a dozen. All the pigeons stood at the edge of the open space, and they were silent. Beka felt the hairs on her neck rise. The pigeons were silent. Too silent. Four more, then 10, then handfulls of them – the pigeons were thick in the garden, but none came near. They ringed her, so many pigeons, looking at her.

“Toss out the bread, Tam.” Her voice was tight. He threw handfuls of the bread into the bare space until the bucket was empty. The pigeons never moved. 

She heard the swoop of wings as it flew past her to land in the middle of the breadcrumbs. He was a large bird, stately even. White with a crown of black, and fierce eyes.

“You were the daughter of my heart,” he said. “No true born father could have loved you more than I. And so proud I have been. You will look for him, won’t you? The one who slit my throat?”

Beka did not notice the tears sliding down her cheeks. “I will. Did you see him? The one with the knife?”

The pigeon pecked a bit of bread. “No, just a scratch on stone then a hand in my hair. A bit of burning, then darkness. I never even got to finish my report.”

The pigeon shook out his wings. Head bobbing, he strutted towards her. It was wrong somehow for a silly bird to hold such a great man. “Tell her I said you will look for him, and to give you the papers. And my dagger. I always meant you to have my dagger.” 

With a flap, he was gone, and the cooing of the pigeons broke the quiet. Beka took a shuddering breath.

“Run, Tam, as fast as you can. Stop for nothing. Run to the kennel to Captain Goodwyn, then to your da and sister at your Aunt Lorine’s shop. Tell them to call out the guard, and at once. Tell them I’ve gone to the castle on search. Tell them what you saw here, and then, “she could barely say the words, “ Then tell them the pigeon spoke for Milord.”


	2. It begins

Chapter 2: It begins

Tam tore down the stairs from the roof, rounded the landing at the common room, and kept on past the kitchen and out the door. Even with the heat, the streets were crowded, and he had to bob and weave to get through the people. 

A cart blocked Spittalfield Road, and he slid under a merchant’s table to get around. His foot caught one of the table legs with a jolt. He heard the merchant’s table collapse behind him but did not look bad. The merchant cried out and reached for him, but Tam was gone before the merchant could grab him. He was breathing heavily when he ran past the old king’s fountain. By the time he could see the black flag of the kennel, he thought his heart would burst.

“Captain Goodwyn! I’ve a message for Captain Goodwyn. It’s urgent!” he yelled as he approached the kennel gate. 

A gixie stood at the lintel. Two lads older than Tam lounged on the other side. The dark haired one stood and crossed his arms. “I ain’t never seen you here afore. Give us your message and we’ll take it to the Captain. She don’t speak to outsiders and she don’t need street trash bothering her. Don’t need no more runners here neither“

For a moment, Tam was breathing too heavy to speak. “Ma said it’s for the Captain only. I gotta speak to her. Let me through.” 

Tam tried to break between them, but the dark hair boy grabbed his arm “I said g’wan! We don’t need you here!”

“Now, Usan me lad, what are you doing with the little one?” From behind the boy, a husky dog with a shaved head and deep brown eyes looked down on them. ”There’s no playing at the kennel. You know that. Take your games and go to Feet Street, but not here.” 

“Please, sir! “Tam piped “Corporal Cooper’s me ma, and she sent me to the Captain. I gotta talk to her right away.”

“Corporal Cooper, eh? Then you know what her hound Slipper likes to do in the afternoon.” The dog looked at him steadily.

“it’s Filcher, not Slipper, and he’ll sleep in the sun every minute if you let him.”

The dog grinned, his great white teeth like lightning in a coppery sky. “Aye, you know Beka, or at least you know her hound. Come along, and we’ll see the Captain.”

The dog turned and led the way into the compound. A group of puppies practiced baton work in the yard, while a line of people waited with bribes for the cage dogs just inside the kennel. It was dark inside, made cool by thick stone walls. It smelled of sweat and dust and scummer, just as ma did when she came in from her shift. The smell made something ease inside of Tam, and his breathing slowed. 

The dog muscled his way through the line. He ignored the glares that followed, and so did Tam. A pair of dogs were unhobbling a rat at the cage, while the man whined that it hadn’t been his fault. A woman cried for her man to another dog, who rolled his eyes and ignored her. Torchlight from the cage threw shadows. The room was full of dogs and lower city people and darkness. Tam’s guide had to push and shove his way through to them to the desk in the corner. 

Clara Goodwin sat at a small desk, casually sharpening her knife and laughing at whatever the dog across from her had said. She was relaxed and rooted, the light glistening off the captain’s cord at her shoulders. But she straightened a little as Tam and the dog grew near. “Marks, what have you brought me?”

The bald dog straightened a bit as Tam peaked out from around him. “Says he’s Corporal Cooper’s boy, with a message for you.”

“Tam?” she said in surprise. “What have you brought me?”

“Ma sent me, Captain, and I run something urgent, and I’m to tell you and no one else, then run for me da, and I’m not to stop for nothing. And please, I gotta tell you, then I gotta go!” Tam let it out in a rush. 

Captain Goodwin gave him a long look. “you do, eh? Well, come tell me, lad.”

Tam looked around. Hi escort Guardsman Marks still stood beside him, and the dog who had been talking to the Captain was across the desk. Goodwin saw his eyes, and motioned him closer. “Alright, lad, whisper it in my ear.”

Tam leaned over, and cupped his hand over the Captain’s ear. He whispered the story, and when he reached the part about what the pigeon had told his ma, she growled. It was a low, feral sound, ugly, and it ripped through the kennel like wind. Heads turned to look at her, and when Tam straightened up, she growled again. 

“Marks, send the lad to his da, then come back quick. And send me runners. Every runner you can get. I need to send messages to the other kennels, and the guard. Send the people home, and close the kennel door.” 

Marks cocked his head. “Captain?”

She nodded. “Do it now, Marks, and back again quick. When the people are gone, tell the dogs quiet to get their riot gear.”

Marks nodded, and laid his hand on Tam’s shoulder. He turned him back to the courtyard, asking “where’s you da, lad?”

“He’s stitching with my Aunt Lorine at her shop. About half-way past Festival Lane. It’s the one with the red shutters and blue door.” 

Marks nodded again. “Alright. Get a drink from the bucket over there while I talk to the runners at the door. Usan me lad! Where are you?”

The water from the dog’s bucket was warm but wet, and seemed the sweetest thing Tam had ever tasted. He could have drank the whole bucket, but Marks was waiting, glancing impatiently over his shoulder. Tam downed a last dipper full, then trotted to the door. 

“Ready, lad? Can you run again?” Marks asked. Tam nodded, and Marks smiled approvingly. “Good, get on to your da, then stay inside. If the Captain wants riot gear, it’s a bad night ahead.”

Tam took off down the street. The kennel was on a slight rise in the lower city, and the run downhill made him feel fast. His foot slid out on some horse dung when he rounded the corner to Feet Street. He could feel the blood on his elbow, and his pants were torn at the knee. Ma would sigh, but Tam was a dog’s son and knew that sometimes, clothes just don’t matter. He picked himself up and kept running.   
Aunt Lorine had married a thread merchant some years back, and they’d opened a shop of thread, needlework supplies, and fine goods ready-made by Lorine’s clever hands. They lived in rooms above the shop with their two children. The baby was still too little to do much, but Lorine’s 5 year old daughter could already crochet and spin a fine yarn. The upper room was a comfortable place, with good light coming in the front window for Lorine’s stitching. Farmer often joined her in stitchery, gossiping about the city while Lorine went about her work and Farmer embroidered. Tam thought it a tame place. Thread was only exciting if it bound pages into a book.

The door was open and the front window as well, letting light into the storefront. Uncle Jaskar was showing a selection of red and burgundy thread to a portly matron, and both turned with a glare when Tam ran through the door. He passed the shelves of needles and hoops to pound up the stairs to the upper room.

Aunt Lorine sat on a bench, her hands tying white thread pinned onto a board into lace. Tam could see a collar taking shape, a bird with delicate feathers sitting on a tree limb. His father sat against the wall by the window. Sunlight illuminated a green ribbon, and glinted off the needle pulling out of a chain of intertwined flowers. Tam panted a moment, blood dripping off his elbow onto his aunt’s clean floor.

“Ma says the pigeon spoke for milord, and we better stay inside cuz the Captain said the dogs have to get their riot gear!”

Farmer straightened slowly. “Hello, Tam, it sounds as if you have a tale to tell us.”


	3. Chapter 3: At the Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beka begins her investigation

As Beka and Filcher trotted up to the gate, she was relieved to see Old Ned at the door. He had been a porter when she was young, and had known her since the days when she first came to live with the Provost. 

“Aya, Young ‘Un! Come to see Milord, eh?” he called out. “Is it dog’s business, or just a family chat? He says you don’t come often enough just to see the family.”

Beka forced herself to smile. “A bit of both this time. You see anything that ought not be where it is today?”

Old Ned shook his head. “Nought a bit. Quiet today, not even a peep. The barn cat had some kittens last night. The miller brought by the flour for the month, and Mya made ginger cakes this morning – mebbe you should stop an see her. She gets lonely down in the kitchen now that all you young uns is growed. You could mebbe bring me one of them gingercakes when you come back.”

“Mebbe. Milord up at his desk?” She waved toward the tower. The Lord Provost had his office on the top floor. He said having it far from the great hall made it quiet, and kept the distractions down.

“It’s half noon, where else? He went up a half candle ago. Mya took him his tea and cake a bit ago but then?” Old Ned shrugged. “Milord works too hard, but that the way of some men. Even a noble like hisself! He’s been up till all hours lately, and grim about it.”

Filcher sniffed around Beka’s feet. “He was working on something?”

“Aya. Herself looking sour about it too.”

Beka leaned towards him. “Close up the door, eh, Ned? Don’t let none in or out unless they be Dogs or guards. I gotta talk to Milord, and we musn’t be bothered.”

Old Ned looked at her a long minute. “There something you ain’t telling me, Beka girl?”

She just looked at him. “Close the door. And bar it. I’m headed to the tower. And don’t let any of the household up there till I call, please. But when the Dogs arrive, tell them where I am. “

He looked back at her, a long sober look, then nodded. She heard the thunk of the bar into place behind her as she trotted over to the tower door.

The tower was good solid river stone, fitted tight and mortared to hold hard and stay dry. Four floors and a crenellated roof, with broad windows to let in the light. The first floor held rooms for Milord’s personal guards, and the weapons room. There was a door there, so that the guards and Milord didn’t have to go through the great hall to their work. A small staircase twisted up each floor, with a hallway running off it to rooms on either side. The halls joined up with the main part of the keep, where Milady ruled. But the tower was Milord’s, and was kept the way he liked. 

Beka looked up. The Haryss banner flew in the breeze above the Great Hall. The shutters were open wide to let the air in all the rooms. Milord’s office was on the third floor, but nothing looked amiss. She opened the door, listening carefully, but there were no sounds of intruders, only the sounds of a well-run keep. Filcher sniffed at the doorknob, and lifted a leg at the lintel. “Tumit!” Beka whispered, and Filcher followed her as she climbed the stairs. 

She came out to a stone hallway, lit by sunlight from the arrow slit in the stairwell. Lady Teodorie stood before the door to Lord Haryss’ office. Her grey hair was pinned up neatly in a lace-edged cap, and her blue gown brushed the floor. She was the picture of a grand dame, and her hand was on the doorknob. “Stop!” Beka called out. But it was too late. 

Lady Teodorie stood in the open door a long moment. She turned to look at Beka, and in that moment, Beka saw the true Teodorie of Haryss. Steel shone from her eyes, and her teeth clenched behind thin, aching lips. Her face was flushed but her hand did not tremble. “You knew?”

Beka bowed her head. The tears threatened behind her eyelids again, but she would not cry. Not now, not when Milord needed her. “Aye. A pigeon brought him to me.”

Milady gave a short nod. “It would. The Black God owes him. I told him this would happen some day. But after all those days and nights working for the realm, the Black God owes him. And the King too. Call on every debt. You will have his seal to open any door, and a purse for bribes. You will find who did it. And they will pay with the bloody ax.”

It was not a question, but Beka nodded anyway. As much as he belonged to Lady Teodorie, he was hers too, and she would find him justice. Lady Teodorie turned from the office door, and Beka came to stand in her place. 

On the wall opposite, the windows were wide open. The afternoon light poured in. Lord Gershom of Haryse was sitting at his desk, head resting on top of some paperwork, a sunbeam making the grey in his hair glow silver. You could almost think he was sleeping if not for the blood that had dripped off the edge and down the front of the desk. One arm sprawled to the side, and a broken mug rested on the floor amid a puddle of tea. A plate with a few crumbs sat on the corner of the desk. More papers were scattered across the floor. The inkwell was on the floor as well, black splashed across the stones towards the doorway. Two chairs sat upright across from the desk. Bookshelves lined the side wall – records of cases and men and laws that the Provost would review when writing his reports.

“Dukduk!” Bela ordered the dog, and Filcher whined but sat. She circled the room to stand at the window and leaned out to look to either side. A thin cord dangled from the roof. The tan manila rope faded into the grey stone in the sunlight, hand grips knotted every few feet. The murderer had used it to climb down to the window, cut Milord’s throat, then climb back up. He must have been skilled to do it silently enough not to alert Milord, and strong and fast to do it so quickly that no one in the courtyard saw him. Beka burned at the thought of him.

Gently, she lifted the head of her foster father. His face was runneled with red. Blood had spilled from his forehead where hair had been ripped out. The murdered had gripped it to pull his head back so the knife could reach the vein. The wound at his throat gapped, and more blood soaked the front of his tunic. Beka smoothed the frown from between his eyes, and closed the lids. He no longer needed to look out at the world so fiercely. She looked closely at his neck. The wound slid towards his right ear. The knifeman had been right-handed then. He would have been tall, too, to pull the knife upward like that.

Lord Gershom’s outstretched hand was closed in a fist. She peeled back the fingers. Three red threads were clutched in his hand. Milord’s tunic was blue and black, embroidered with grey, and his pants were a fine grey wool. The threads had not come from him. The napkin Mya had brought was blue as well, embroidered with the blue, white and black of the Haryse arms. The threads did not belong in this room. 

Beka smiled savagely. Trust that even in death, Milord would leave her a clue. She looked up at her dog consideringly. The threads weren’t much, but Filcher had a fine nose. He might take a scent from them. She teased the threads from the Provost’s cooling hand and placed them in the waxed leather envelope she pulled from her pack. It would keep their scent safe until she needed them. Beka lowered Lord Gershom’s head back to his desk and called to Filcher. He circled the desk to stand beside her, avoiding the blood and ink staining the floor. She pointed at the windowsill. “Bangkit. Bau!”

Filcher half jumped to put his front feet on the window and get his head over the sill. He sniffed the rock, and when she pulled the rope over, sniffed it as well. He had a serious look now. He was a silly dog until he had a scent, then the puppy disappeared and the work began. He sniffed the rope again, nose quivering.

From the courtyard below her, she heard a deep voice cry out “open up in the name of the King!” Tam must have gotten through to Goodwyn, then. The Guard was here. She had best get to the roof before they destroyed the scent. She heard Old Ned direct them to the tower. Leaving Lord Gershom cooling on the desk behind her, she walked through the door and back down the hallway. She and Filcher climbed the final flight of stairs to the roof. 

Beka closed the door behind her as she surveyed the top of the tower. The parapet was low, designed more for decoration that defense, with wide crennelations to let the breeze through. Sunlight slashed down to create blocky shadows. The water barrels to catch rain for the guardmen’s bathroom were here, and a bench. Filcher ran to a merlon to her right, and she followed. The rope was tied around the rock, directly over Milord’s window. She examined it carefully as she pulled it up, but there was nothing distinctive. 

Filcher whined behind her. His ears were forward and his eyes dark, his nose still twitching. He had the scent. “Mencari!” she said, and he ran to the other side of the roof. He barked over the wall. She looked past him to see that the roof of the main keep was only a few feet below. The knifeman had gotten to the tower from the roof. Milady kept things in good repair, but there was moss growing on the tiles. The roof was gently sloped to let the rains slide off, and between moss and the angle, it would be too slick for Filcher. She leaned over the wall as far as she could go to look at the moss. It was torn in three places heading towards the great hall. The knifeman had gotten to the roof somehow, walked across, climbed to the tower roof, and roped down to Milord’s study. This was no casual knifeman, then. He had to have studied the keep to know how to get to the tower, and to know Milord’s habits for when he’d be alone. 

Turning, she and Filcher returned to the stairwell. The Guard was approaching the tower as she exited the first floor. Leading them was a short, stocky man clad in a red surcote over a metal chest plate. Articulated pauldrons covered his shoulders, and cuisses covered his thighs down to his knees. He had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache, and close cropped hair. His face was grim. Sir Lorthan of Meald Wood always looked grim when she saw him at the provost’s court, but today his face was dark and bleak. “Report!” he ordered.

Beka looked around. The courtyard had filled with guardmen. The people of the keep filtered around the edges, confused and frightened. Anything she said here would be heard by all. “I’m Corporal Rebeka Cooper of the Lower City. This is my scent hound Filcher.”

Sir Lorthan assessed her. “You’re the Black God’s priestess, right? He speaks to you somehow?”

She took a deep breath. “He sends the spirits of the dead to me. He sent Milord to me mebbe two candlemarks ago. I grew up here, and I came… I sent a messenger to the Kennel and came at once.”

“He’s dead, then?” Sir Lorthan cocked his head. Beka nodded and the knight’s eyes narrowed. “Murdered?” 

Beka nodded again, and heard Old Ned cry out in denial. Somewhere a maid began to wail, and the stockmen swore from the stable doors. 

“I will not have my husband discussed in the muck.” Lady Teodorie’s cold voice rang out, and the crowd silenced. She had come out from the great hall to survey the scene. “You will come into the hall, hear her report, and let her continue on her hunt. And then we will see to Lord Gershom. He can wait. His killer cannot.”


End file.
